


Even The Finest Are Flawed

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:44:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are my keeper, my owner and my God.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even The Finest Are Flawed

1st Age,

Ered Lindon.

 

The clattering of hooves upon the flagstones of the courtyard made me look up from my latest composition. There were no cries for the healers. The journey had fared well. With a contented sigh, I rose from my seat and walked to the large window that looked over the yard. 

My father’s star danced across the black canopy of the rich cloth upon which it was woven with care and love. The herald held the banner high and proud. That was as it should be. Then the herald winked at me most mischievously. I sighed. Elros would never learn decorum. I settled for a tight smile and willed him to move the damned banner from my line of sight, so that I could temporarily rest those fears which never stopped preying on my mind. 

Elros chuckled and took pity, nudging his stallion onwards. 

My brother was conversing briskly with his second, his mien carved in determination and his fingers rising and falling in tandem along with his words as he argued a point. And I exhaled in pure relief, darkly wondering what I would do on the day this sight was denied me. But it was all in the vague future. I would make the best of what we had. He must have felt the weight of my thoughts upon him, for he paused in the middle of his discussion and swerved about in the saddle to look up at me, those grey eyes warm and exhausted. A smile curved his lips as he regarded me. I nodded to him coolly and turned away, for I was in extreme danger of losing my composure and I did not want Elros or anyone else to notice that. 

The familiar knock sounded and I put my unfinished composition away and walked to the door, cherishing the knife-edge of anticipation that burned within me. No sooner had I begun pulling the door open when I found myself enclosed by his arm and held tightly against his frame. 

“Glad to be back?” I jested, withdrawing from the unexpected embrace reluctantly. 

Rare it was for him to initiate such impulsive gestures. But the door was open and we could not risk indiscretion. With a sigh, I bolted the door and turned to face him. He was frightfully gaunt and looked quite on the brink of a physical collapse. Of course, this was a familiar condition for him and it did not concern me overly. A few weeks under my eagle eye would see him restored. 

“Have you been well?” he asked me, his fingers coming to caress my hair. 

“Later,” I advised, before closing the distance between us.

His eyes have always reminded me of the raiment of Este. When he regarded me as he did then with such warmth evident in his gaze, I loved the infuriating creature ever more than I had done thus far, which was no mean feat. 

“Macalaurë?” he asked, concern chasing away all other emotions from his eyes.

I shook my head and brought my fingers to trace the dearly familiar features that I never tired of mapping. A ragged sigh left his lips and his hand gripped my shoulder painfully. 

“Ada!” Elros’s singsong voice broke the moment and I swore most foully. Russandol chuckled and stepped away, weariness overtaking desire.

“Rest. I will see what the scamp wants,” I ordered him. 

“I am famished,” he said. “Would you get me a light repast when you return?”

“I shall.” I could not resist brushing his fingers. They trembled under my touch and he snatched his hand away. It had been too long. “Don’t bolt the door. I will be back as soon as I can.”

He nodded and made his way into the inner chamber. I cursed Elros and smoothed down my robes before leaving.

“Ada!” Elrond was breathless as he caught up with me. “Elros has brought home a hedgehog. It is in the stables. Can we bring it in, please?”

“So that was the reason behind the summons?” 

“It is a very intelligent creature, Ada.” Elros swaggered towards us. “I know it will play an important role in our future.”

“The hedgehog?” I asked wryly.

“Indeed,” Elros said with complete confidence. “Elrond has foreseen that.”

“Perhaps it will deal you a fatal quill,” I remarked.

“Ada!” Elros huffed. “Don’t be so sarcastic. Let us keep it. If you can adopt us, we can adopt it.”

“I had no choice but to adopt you,” I protested. 

“This is the same,” Elros assured me. “We ate its parents for dinner one night.”

I stopped walking and stared at him. Elrond was smothering his laughter with his knuckles in his mouth. I shot him a sharp glare before regarding Elros again.

“I did not eat your parents. This is not the same case,” I said with as much cold dignity as I could muster.

“Trust me,” Elros said breezily, “you were better off not eating our mother.”

I sighed and began tiredly, “She had harsh choices in her life, Elros. You must not think ill of her.”

“I won’t,” he promised, “if you allow us to keep the hedgehog.”

“That is a fair deal!” Elrond agreed with a vigorous nod. 

“Don’t let the animal come within a mile of me,” I warned them. “If I see it in my vicinity, I shall send the two of you along with the creature to Artanis.”

Elrond paled and Elros hastily nodded assent. They feared my cousin, whose reputation for being difficult was well known to all. With grim satisfaction of a threat well made, I strode back to my chambers. 

After securing the bolts, I walked to the bedchamber. I paused at the threshold, contentedly taking in the sight of the languid form spread over the silk sheets. He must have been too exhausted if he had not bothered to even get under the covers. I settled myself in a chair by the side of the bed and kept a silent vigil. How often had I done the same on occasions less joyous? Perhaps the Gods were finally tiring of causing havoc in our lives. Perhaps they had found other prey. Perhaps I would never have to watch over my brother’s convalescence again.

He stirred, his brow creased and his lips turned taut. The Gods had not given up then. I began singing softly as the nightmares fought to gain ascendancy over his mind. They called my voice mighty. They were not mistaken. As long as my voice sung vigil, the nightmares would never win. 

It seemed to be worse that day, for there were no signs of the dreams abating despite my continual singing. When he began thrashing wildly, his forehead glistening with sweat, I cursed and slipped into the bed, pulling him to me. Even as I tried to soothe him with words and touch, his eyes focused and he fell limp, his face betraying his shock and embarrassment. It was an unvoiced principle that I would never touch him when I kept vigil. 

“It was frightening,” I said simply.

He did not reply. I raised my head on an arm and looked down at him. His eyes were slowly clearing to lucidity and his breathing returned to the usual rate. 

“Are you well?” I prompted, when he refused to meet my eyes.

“I don’t need a caretaker,” he said crisply. 

“Are you well?” I asked again.

I knew him. Beneath his pride and self-reliance lay a world of vulnerabilities and fears that required my subtle reassurance all too often. 

“No,” he admitted with a vexed sigh, letting his eyes travel to my forehead thoughtfully. “I don’t think I will find rest again.”

I was casting about for words that would offer comfort without wounding his considerable pride when he rolled over to pin me beneath him, his eyes sprinkled with mischief so rarely seen that I lay stunned and silent. 

His lips came to clash against mine, effectively killing my thought process. My hands crept to the nape of his neck even as he assaulted my mouth with his tongue, his knees digging into my body painfully. Such dominance I had never seen in him before that I lay gasping and wide-eyed even when he broke the kiss to lavish my right earlobe with wet twirls that made me cry out at the shocking tingle of pleasure that ran down to my loins.

His fingers were tearing the laces off my robes. I tried to stay him, but he swatted my hand away and continued, even as his tongue continued its campaign down my neck rendering me incapable of any sounds except groans and soft hisses. 

When he had the robes opened to reveal the front of my body to his desire-darkened gaze, he sighed and ran his fingers down my chest. 

“How do you do it?” he asked me absently as he bent his head to kiss my navel.

“What?” I hissed, extremely unwilling to break his unusual streak of domination that I was reveling in. 

“How do you manage to look more handsome with each passing day?” he asked, looking quite solemn.

“Days spent in the twins’ company are not good for your senses, Russandol. We are both too old to be on the either ends of such conversation!” I spluttered, wondering what exactly Elros might have been doing during this journey. 

He chuckled before bringing my hands to the laces that held his robe shut. I untied them hastily, with far less than my usual grace. When I let my fingers drop his hand followed to clasp them and his lips returned to their assault upon mine. I arched against him and let out a frustrated grunt when he hovered above me, his skin inches away from mine, denying me the friction I so desperately craved. 

“Tell me what it is like,” he demanded, teasing me with long, sultry strokes that brought me more need than relief.

“What?” I asked, too far gone to even register that he was deliberately slowing the strokes, delaying my descent into passion.

“Well,” he drawled, his grey eyes lightening in deviousness, yet holding a measure of solemnity. “What am I like?”

“Russandol!” I gasped, as he pinched my thigh to effectively keep me on the edge.

“Tell me.”

“How can you expect me to remember even my mother’s name when I am in this state?” I spluttered angrily.

“It is Nerdanel, in case you don’t remember,” he offered politely, before letting his fingers play their cruel game on my desire again. “But that was not my question.”

“You are wonderful.” 

“What an appalling answer!” he exclaimed, letting our bodies brush just the once. I groaned in want. “I hope nobody else had the misfortune of hearing it from their lover. If the famed poet of the Noldor is so lacking in words, I shudder to think of the rest of us!”

“What do you want to hear?” I ground out, too maddened by lust.

“The truth.” He leaned in, his grey eyes searching mine earnestly. “I need to know the truth, Macalaurë. Tell me what I am.”

The intensity of his gaze undid my lust and all my lower emotions. I saw him, I saw all that I worshipped in him, I saw all that I loved in him and I saw him. He wanted the truth and that he would receive from my lips. 

“You, brother,” I traced his dear features with trembling fingers, “you are my altar and my damnation, my kingdom and my prison, my glory and my sin, my pride and my fall, my strength and my failing. You are all that I have wanted and feared. My love for you made me, Russandol, and I know it shall break me at the end.”

He did not reply. He did not need to, for his tears were mingled with mine and running down my skin. His hand brought me to completion, draining out my passion as his life had drained out mine from the beginning.

Staving off the darkness that lured me in the aftermath of cataclysm, I turned to face him. His eyes were closed shut and his brow was creased by silent mental anguish. 

“What am I to you?” I whispered, half-jestingly. “I do deserve an ode in return, I think.”

“I am no poet,” he remarked, opening his eyes and meeting my gaze steadily. The calm mien of diplomacy had veiled his emotion and now there was only endurance. 

“But do try,” I pressed him on. “Perhaps you do have it in you. We are of the same blood, after all.”

“If there is art in my blood, it should have manifested itself in some manner a long time ago,” he said dryly, his eyes shining in amusement at the idea. “I am no poet, Macalaurë.”

“Play fair, brother!” I pinched his cheek, laughing when he swatted off my hand, his features scandalized by my gesture. 

“Let me see.” He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “How long do I get?”

“Not much,” I replied. “I have devious consequences planned out if you don’t give me an answer before I count to ten.”

He shot me a challenging look. I groaned, knowing well his love for devious consequences. 

“I take my words back!” I pinched him again. “But I want an answer.”

“And that you shall have, if you promise that you will not allow Elros to accompany me on journeys in the future. He nearly deflowered the daughter of a human chieftain who threatened to horsewhip him. You don’t know the desperate measures I resorted to in keeping him out of trouble.”

“We have an agreement.” I kissed his collarbone, shaking my head in fond exasperation when he subtly arched his throat.

“Very well then, listen clearly for I am not putting myself through this ordeal of finding the right words again.”

“This from the most eloquent speaker the court of Tirion has ever known?” I asked teasingly.

“It doesn’t take any effort to talk about granaries, cows and taxes. All you need do is to wear decent robes and look confident.” 

“That is why the women were flocking to listen to your speeches. I had often wondered what they found interesting about Tirion politics.”

“Indeed,” he chuckled. “I doubt if-”

“Enough!” I rolled atop him and glared down. “Tell me now. If I let you continue, you will effectively sidetrack me and I want none of that.”

He brought his hand to trace my nose before speaking in his most detached tones those words that shall haunt me till the end.

“You are my keeper, my owner and my God.”

Fear flooded my veins and my heart constricted as I took in his words. Those grey eyes were inscrutable as they watched my reaction. There was heresy, and there was heresy. His words belonged to the second category. Never before in my life had I heard anyone speak such blasphemy. If our father had reaped such sorrow upon us all for his defiance of the Valar, what would my brother’s words earn? 

How easily had he spoken those words! It was as if he had always had them ready. I shuddered as I understood everything finally. I realized why the Valar had left him to rot in Angband and why he had fought off death with pain. I understood the cause behind our father’s grief when he had looked upon my brother for the final time and the reason that spurred Artanis to beg me to take care of Russandol. 

Long had I been blind to what my brother was. He had never believed in the Valar. Even decades before Melkor had planted madness in our father’s mind my brother had never believed. 

“Take back your words!” I shouted, my voice reverberating in the chamber. “Take them back this instant!”

He raised an eyebrow languidly, his face betraying no turmoil or fear as he said, “I will not revoke what is the truth.”

“You fool!” I sat up and shook him by the shoulders. “You insane fool! How dare you say such things?”

He splayed his fingers on my chest and said calmly, “Macalaurë, you asked.”

 

Valinor,

4th Age.

 

Celebrían and Eönwë came with me. She was my closest ally, for she knew well the pain of blasphemy, death and betrayal more than anyone else in Valinor did. Eönwë came because he had sworn to my mother that no harm would befall me.

“Lord Manwë!” She called aloud, her features set in determination. “Lord Manwë!”

Despite the terrible ordeal she had endured before the halls of Mandos, she did not lack in bravery, or optimism. Perhaps it was her father’s legacy; Artanis had always been a pessimist.

Manwë appeared, looking as cold as ever. 

“Celebrían!” Was it my imagination, or was his voice milder than usual. “What are you doing here with the kinslayer?”

“He has questions, milord,” she explained without losing a shred of enthusiasm. “I came along to translate.”

Manwë glared at me. I remained unfazed. I had been through too much to be scared by his threats. And Eönwë was accompanying us. Unlike the last time, I did not have to worry about Celebrían’s safety.

“Lord Manwë,” Eönwë stepped in. “Artanis comes.”

“I know that,” Manwë said coldly. “Her crimes are worse than those of Fëanáro.”

I looked across at Celebrían, trying to put my thoughts into words. 

“Speak, Macalaurë Fëanorion,” Manwë said irritably. “I would rather that you did not sully her mouth with your words. Merely this once, you are allowed to speak.”

Eönwë looked as astounded as I was on hearing Manwë’s concern for Celebrían. She did have a way of ingratiating herself into the coldest soul. But for Manwë to be so kindly disposed towards her, I wondered how powerful her heart was. It was her heart, of course. Unlike her mother’s intellect or my father’s fiery brilliance, Celebrían possessed no great talent. But she knew to love purely.

“I cannot waste my time on you,” Manwë muttered.

The sound of my voice was nearly a stranger to me, for it had been too long since I had last spoken. Celebrían flinched and Eönwë sighed. Even Manwë cleared his throat when my melodious, untarnished voice lent shape to my question.

“My brother was wise and you cannot deny it,” I said quietly. “He did not believe in you, Manwë. He did not believe in the rest of your pantheon.”

Celebrían gasped and brought her hands to her mouth. Eönwë stood unmoved, though his eyes reflected understanding. Perhaps my mother had known. She was very perceptive and my brother had been her firstborn.

“Your brother’s religious convictions were very flawed,” Manwë said briskly. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything now. He is dead.”

He is dead.

Could three words suffice to extinguish hope, pride and the will to live? Apparently they could, I discovered then.

A strong tendril of thought brushed my mind. I closed my eyes, letting my mother’s support wash through me. She was my bulwark.

“If my brother did not believe in the Valar, he must have had a reason.” 

“And what would that be?” 

It was Varda. How I despised her; her love for the craven Moringotto had destroyed my family and all that I loved. 

“Perhaps,” I met her gaze squarely, refusing to relinquish my pride, “he knew something that nobody did.”

“He is dead, Macalaurë,” Manwë said quietly. “You can better serve your house by asking Artanis to plead for mercy. The Valar are merciful despite what you fear us to be.”

“My mother will not plead,” Celebrían said in a small, defiant voice. “She will neither plead nor parley.”

“Then she shall be judged and sentenced,” Manwë said calmly.

 

“Is there nothing that we can do?” Celebrían asked my mother with tears in her eyes as the clouds brought a terrible storm over the sea. 

We were gathered upon the shore. Arafinwë and Eärwen were speaking softly, their faces betraying their grief and despair. Eärwen reminded me of the crime Artanis would be accused of. 

“You loved her!” Celebrían clutched my arm convulsively. “Can you save her?”

“You love her yet!” Russandol was saying wearily as he descended into one of his brooding periods.

“I love her enough to die for her. I love you enough to live for you. There is a vast difference, I assure you.”

And there was a vast difference. It took more courage to live than to die. 

If Artanis lived, she would have to endure the scorn of our kindred and the taint of kinslaying forever. That was my lot. I would not have her suffer the same. Let her take the easier path out, as my brother had. 

And the clouds broke to reveal a lonely ship at the kiss of the sun upon the horizon. It formed a dark silhouette against the red splendour of the dusk. The stars of the Valacirca shone brightly upon it, an omen I cared not to think about.

 

“The fire in our hearts shall conquer the doom, O lords of the west!  
Fear we shall not, for we are the heralds of dusk!”

I swore when I heard my cousin’s proud voice. She had chosen to live and fight. 

“Oh! It is my mother! It is Galadriel!” Celebrían clasped her hands. “They are still alive! Thank Eru!”

“It was her choice,” my mother told me quietly. 

So it was. Perhaps my brother had known all along that this day would come. 

You are my keeper, my owner and my God.

I had been that to him. And he had been more to me. If he had not believed in the Valar for all his life, and if Artanis did not believe in them now, then I could do without the pantheon and their laws. My voice soared high and clear above the gusts of wind calling Artanis home, for home it was despite all that stood in her path.

“Be at a court, or in a war, or in the face of death, or in a bower,  
I shall not lose, nor shall I want, for in my blood is fire!”

My voice was molten gold, according to my father. He must have been right, for silence fell upon the crowded seashore. Manwë’s wrath was given form as a fierce wind that howled its displeasure. But above its tumult, a dearly loved, clear, proud, female voice rose.

“Be I alone, be I in peril, be I doomed that I can sink no lower,  
I shall not fear, nor shall I cry, for I am a child of Finwë!”

Artanis would not give in, and neither would I. It was finally time to avenge all those who had fallen before us.

* * *


End file.
